This Never Happened
by Darkness Alit
Summary: “This never happened, I know. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and the days and weeks before them. Just like tomorrow. I know.” HPDM


Disclaimer: I don't own it... And this might be considered somewhat AUish. Rated for implied sex and swearing. Slash, obviously, so if you don't like it, stop reading here.

* * *

Grey eyes opened in the soft light of the candles scattered around the room. They flicked briefly to the wand waiting just within reach, then ignored it.

From behind the wakened wizard movement stirred the bed. His eyes closed briefly, reopening as chilled steel.

A slight groan was punctuated by sudden stillness before the lingering lethargy was rudely broken.

"This never happened."

Stifling a sigh, the more awake of the two pushed the cover away, stretching his shoulders before testing his legs. They held up alright, so he started searching for his clothes, tossing red and gold aside.

"Did you hear me?"

"I'm a little too relaxed, not deaf," he retorted, but without bite. "This never happened, I know. Just like yesterday, and the day before, and the days and weeks before them. Just like tomorrow. I know." Having sorted out their clothes he began dressing methodically. Routine was comfortable—he'd be a fool not to know that. It could soothe tension and nerves, or it could create problems too big to be overcome. Yes, he knew all about routines.

He picked up his wand to cast a spell on the unclaimed clothing, but the spell fizzled out with a faint hint of pale yellow. The spell had already been cast. One side of his mouth quirked even as he put his wand away, having cast the spell on his own clothing that morning, attested to by the utter lack of wrinkles despite the less than gentle treatment they'd suffered.

He drew his shoes closer and sat down on the bed, noting absently that his partner's transfiguration skills had improved. There was no lingering sign of carved initials in the mattress, and the blanket was delightfully monogram free. "Won't they be worrying?" he asked, picking at his laces.

The blanket flew back as the nude form beneath sat up abruptly. "No." He got up, pulling clothing on in typical haphazard fashion. "They're used to it, now. The ones who matter, anyway."

A brow lifted, even as he watched the red, black and gold tie end up half-stuffed and half-dangling from a pocket. "How Gryffindor of you."

Frustrated green eyes met his grey, and sparked even as he bit out a retort. "I know it's not the attitude I'm supposed to have. Hell—" he gestured widely between them, then picked up his wand, returning the bed and blanket to desk and handkerchief, respectively. He brought a hand to his brow, then scrubbed futilely at the mark there. "How fucked up am I?"

He snorted. "Do you really want me to answer?"

Green flashed and muscles clenched before easing as he realized the words had been spoken in gentle amusement, rather than the expected mockery. He closed his eyes and let his head fall into the cradle of his hands.

"We're so fucked up there's no point to trying to list every reason why."

"No," he agreed, picking up the handkerchief he only used for transfigurations. A thought occurred to him, making him snort with bitter amusement. "At least there's one headline I never have to worry about seeing."

"'The Fucked Up Boy Who Lived to Fuck other Boys'? I suppose not. Something like 'The Boy Who Lived to be Trapped in the Serpent's Coils' would be more likely." He finished putting his shoes on, wondering—not for the first time—why they never called each other by name during these… meetings. Perhaps they were both too uncomfortable being intimate with someone by last name called… yet knew that they weren't intimate _enough_ to use first names.

"Trapped?" Surprise gave way to amusement. "Do you suppose you could trap me?"

"No. Only that you seem to feel trapped every time I'm feeling lethargic."

Harry—he could _think_ the name even if he'd not gathered himself to say it—looked down. "I'm… it's not…"

He held up a hand. "I know. I understand."

"No… you… I—"

"Yes, I do. You hate being the Boy Who Lived. You don't mind the 'live' part of lived, but everything else. The expectations, the fame, the worry that anything you do is out there for public censor, the sudden headlines. But you accept it, because if you don't you'll go mad, and you are a Gryffindor… so you'll do what they think you must, for them, you'll be a hero, for them, and you'll ignore or hide who you are… for them. Almost Slytherin of you, that—hiding something so fundamental. But it's not doing you any good, save self-preservation, which straddles the line between, but ensures you have one less thing for people to bug you about." A pair of bulky black frames caught his attention. A cynical smile touched his lips as he stooped to pick them up. "I'd feel bad about any other Gryffindor being here," he mused, looking through the corrective lenses. He knew if he put them on his vision would be dangerously affected. Just as he knew they changed to plain glass when on the Golden Boy's nose. "You're a bit Slytherin. Though you wouldn't have survived in my house." He held out the glasses.

Harry took them with a bitter laugh. "Wouldn't I? Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. My name alone… would have made up for my mother's blood. And with me in your house…"

They'd have been friends. Harry would have been taught everything he should know, and his house would not now be divided between those who served the Dark Lord, for whatever reason, and those whose family wouldn't kill them if they didn't.

Both knew that was true.

"You certainly wouldn't have gotten into so much trouble."

"Would have given a lot of people heart attacks. Snape included."

"He'd have been proud. The son of his rival in _his_ house?" he snorted and slowly got to his feet, ruing the extra distance between former bed and current desk. "This is pointless. The hat put you where you were meant to be."

"Did it?"

"It's not like it gave you a choice."

"Right…" Harry said slowly.

He turned, wishing he didn't have to. This moment, the first they looked at each other when both were fully clothed after… was always so uncomfortable.

Their eyes met, and Harry pinched the bridge of his nose, looking away. His hands tightened over his glasses. "Mal…" He bit his lip. "What are we doing?"

The sarcastic 'each other' filled the air despite the silence when their eyes met briefly. Harry looked away again.

He ran a hand through his hair, straightening the slightly too-long locks from their ruffled state. "Stress relief."

Harry snorted a disbelieving laugh. "Stress relief? The hell?"

"We've both reasons to be uptight. I certainly feel more relaxed and at ease when we leave." If a bit… uncomfortable.

"You consider this stress relief?"

"A tried and true method. Medically proven, in fact." He fished his own tie out of his pocket and slung it around his neck, beginning the twists to tie it.

"Nice try. Care to answer this time?" Those ever-green eyes watched the slick cloth twist until it was snug at his throat.

He loosened it a bit. It was late, after all. "You won't even admit this happens. It's your guilty moment of selfish pleasure."

A dark brow quirked.

"Time, then," he shrugged. "You don't want to meet, but you don't want to stop. Just don't show up if you don't want it to happen." He sharply bit off the 'idiot' that nearly tacked itself onto the sentence. "It's not like it matters, right? Neither of us can tell anyone."

Harry's eyes slid away from his.

With a roll of his own he headed for the door, knowing that he would feel worse the farther he went, the warmth of this encounter being sucked out of him until he was nearly as cold as he usually was. He would remain cold until tomorrow night… unless he didn't come.

The knowledge that he'd never even ­_considered_ not showing up made anger flare sharply, his eyes narrowing briefly before he forced them back into neutrality. "Whatever else you tell yourself," he said, forcing himself to neither growl or hiss. "I am not a whore." He hadn't looked back, and didn't feel the need to. Harry was sometimes remarkably easy to read. Right now he would be harder to read than a statue. A muggle one at that.

He stepped through the wards, using a simple spell to pass through them without breaking them, as he'd set them to begin with. Harry's passage would remove them, the door would be noticed again and sounds would travel.

Potter's, that is. He was outside the door again. He was no longer allowed to think of him as Harry. No longer allowed to bite down his threats, his sneers, his sharp retorts. No longer allowed to know about the freckle on his shoulder, the scars on his back. No longer allowed to know how those green eyes shifted when filled with heat and want, instead of the fierce burn of anger or spite.

No longer allowed to enjoy the very faint lingering release of tension and turmoil. No longer allowed to ignore the world. He was a Slytherin, his family served the Dark Lord, and unless Potter—

"Draco!"

He felt his heart still along with his feet. He swallowed and turned. He would have assumed he should anticipate a retort or even a fight… except he'd never heard his name, _his_ name, not his _Father's_ name, pass Potter's lips. Or was it Harry, again, all of a sudden?

He didn't like being so uncertain before his rival. Before his lover. He nearly ran a hand through his hair in frustration, but they were in the halls. Anyone could come wandering by, curfew and school rules or not. He could not appear anything less than the pureblood heir he was.

The green eyes were sharp, though, and caught the aborted movement. A tiny curl to one side of his mouth, before that almost-smile was passed to his lips through sudden contact.

When Potter drew back he looked away and ran a hand through his hair, irritating Draco as his careful work from the hours before was erased as the shock of wild hair went from 'just shagged' to 'just got dragged through a hedge' again. He opened his mouth before closing it, biting down on the slightly worn lip.

"I know," he sighed, offering a rueful smile as he went about recomposing his mask. "This never happened." Still, the kiss and his name had made him feel better. And he'd always assumed Gryffindors were both oblivious and stupid. This one, at least, had a touch of Slytherin in him.

For a long moment, he wanted to draw it out.

Then he realized he was still able to see every shade of green those annoyingly captivating eyes held, and he reached for the glasses clutched in Potter's hand even as Potter tried to figure out how to go about forming whatever words he needed to say what he was wanting to. He tugged them loose and unfolded them, using a wandless spell to remove the fingerprints before setting them on the Gryffindor's nose. He felt the slight whisper of magic as they adjusted to glass beneath his fingertips, and briefly mourned the loss of that sight while feeling irrationally pleased that he was one of the only—if not _the_ only—ones who knew what a difference those ugly things made. From gorgeous to geeky, all thanks to that one, simple addition.

When he'd asked, Potter had just said it would be an advantage—an enemy would believe him virtually blind without his glasses. And he would have been, if he hadn't had his vision fixed.

Neither had bother to mention that Potter without glasses would draw more attention than Potter with.

They _didn't say_ so much.

"Didn't it?"

Draco blinked, trying to remember what had been said. Harry wasn't really one for quick retorts, especially after kisses. "Wha—"

"Filch is wandering around the main corridor in the dungeons," Potter went on, blithely ignoring his attempt to speak. The soft light reflecting on the lenses off his glasses kept Draco from knowing if he was amused or oblivious. He was holding that ratty paper he lugged around for reasons Draco didn't bother to ask. He'd learned when something had to do with people who had died—something in the way Potter held his jaw and lips changed—and avoided those subjects unless he felt like pain. "So you should probably use the back stairs."

"I have an excuse for wandering," Draco shrugged, still trying to remember what Potter was talking about.

Potter shrugged as if it didn't matter to him. "See you tomorrow, then."

"Mm."

Potter smiled, that rare, utterly _Slytherin_ smile that always slithered down Draco's spine, and turned sharply for the tower. "Night, Draco."

"Mm," Draco agreed, still frazzled. Since these nights had become more… _active_… that smile had always distracted Draco in far more pleasant ways than it had before, where it had served to induce paranoia and nervous tension. That, combined with the repetition of his name—

His lips parted and he spun around when he remembered. ­"What?!"

Harry was already out of sight, but the sound of his chuckle drifted around the corner and echoed pleasantly. Harry.

Not Potter.

His lips curled in a faint smile.


End file.
